


Promises

by Opal_Edge



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is Allergic to Feelings, Exorcisms, Feels, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28803891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opal_Edge/pseuds/Opal_Edge
Summary: It's been four years since Armageddon, and life is just the same for Crowley and Aziraphale. Crowley plans a quick temptation at a church before dinner, but the priest gives him more trouble than he anticipated...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	Promises

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself I'd never write another fan fiction. Uhhhhhh yeah that didn't work. I got this prompt from my partner, hope you enjoy!

The church was a tiny affair, wooden and ramshackle, perched on a rocky little island. Similar islands clustered together, forming a tiny hamlet only accessible by boat. Or by miracle. Crowley shook ocean spray off his pants, surveying the pebbled beach he’d appeared in. A seagull fluttered down next to him and squawked.

Curling his lip he hissed at it, and it flew away in a flurry of dirty white wings.

“Pest,” he muttered. “No better than a sky-rat; nothing like ducks.” He strolled from the beach, up a grassy hillock and down a dirt road. It had rained the night before and churned the dirt into mud, but nothing dared mire his shoes. He shoved his hands into his pockets, whistling. The island was so small that crossing it end to end took less than fifteen minutes. Crowley was bored enough to time it.

Four years had passed since the end of the world. The humans had moved on; last he heard Anathema and Newt were married (they’d even sent wedding invitations to Aziraphale and him- Crowley hadn’t gone of course, but Aziraphale had. He’d said it was quite lovely), the Them were growing up, Warlock had gotten used to America (from time to time he mailed postcards), and Shadwell and Madame Tracy were off in the countryside somewhere. Sometimes Crowley forgot how short human lives were, how quickly life changed for them. For him nothing had changed, except he did temptations on his own time now. It was months since he’d last done anything truly wicked. He itched to stir up some trouble. And what was more fun than messing about with priests?

Crowley stopped outside the church, cracking his knuckles. He raised a hand to rap on the soggy door, thought better of it, and called out instead. “Hallo? Anyone home?”

He was answered with a yelp and a crash. The door opened, a scrawny young priest in an ill-fitting cassock staring at him anxiously. 

“If you’re here for the service, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. It doesn’t start until noon.”

Crowley glanced at his watch. “It’s half past one.”

“What!” The priest’s eyes bugged out. “It was just eleven!” he protested.

Crowley shrugged. “Sorry. Though say, since you’ve already missed your service anyway, why are you sticking around here. Wouldn’t it be nicer- less damp at least -to nip over to the bar? Have a pint or two- relax a little. You work very hard, don’t you? Day in and day out, for what. You have three parishioners, no one else bothers to sssshow-- you must be very...tired of it all.” Crowley bore down on the priest, his sunglasses like two black holes in his face.

The priest straightened, his expression shuttering. “I’m afraid I don’t drink, wouldn’t be very priestly of me if I did. Would you like to come in for a moment? It’s cold out, and you look chilled to the bone.”

Crowley hadn’t noticed he was shivering. Cold blooded as he was, usually Aziraphale kept him warm. The angel was so filled with warmth he practically generated it. But Crowley had left suddenly without bothering to tell Aziraphale. They were on for dinner tonight, and knowing Crowley was performing a temptation might spoil it. Anyway, this wouldn’t take long.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt, Father-?” 

“Nicolas.”

It would hurt, but right now Crowley cared more about getting out of the cold and completing this temptation than a prickle or two. He swept through the doorway, marching with a hopped half-step that he tried to pull off as an intentional strut.

Nicolas watched him with a strange gleam in his eyes. “Right this way. There’s wood for the fireplace somewhere around here.”

Crowley frowned as Nicolas rooted around under the pulpit. “The whole church is bloody made of wood, what are you on about?”

“Stand over there, would you?” Nicolas nodded to the apse. “It’s the driest part, the roof isn’t as leaky.”

Crowley shrugged and did as the priest said. “If you don’t want a drink would you rather-” He stopped talking as the priest uttered a word. White lines glowed past Crowley’s feet, an invisible wall rearing up around him. Swearing, he snapped his fingers and thought of somewhere, anywhere else. Nothing happened. He snapped his fingers again and a tire iron appeared. When he tried to throw it at the priest it bounced off the pentagram’s wall, clattering to the floor. Crowley huffed and crossed his arms, scowling at Nicolas, who raised an eyebrow.

“Are you done yet?” the priest asked.

“No!” Crowley snapped. “Sssod off.”

Nicolas’s lips twitched into a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. Despite the priest’s attitude Crowley could feel his fear, his caution. Nicolas hid a tremble well as he turned from Crowley, scooping up a goblet and walking toward a font near the church entrance. Crowley watched as he filled the cup to the brim, muttering a prayer to himself. Crowley gulped as he returned, careful not to spill a drop.

“...I ask that this water be blessed and purified and made holy. In the name of God…” his voice sank back to a murmur. He circled the pentagram, spilling the cup’s contents around its edges. 

Crowley shrank away from the holy water. Fuck. He was fucked. A quick temptation? Really? When was it ever so simple. He cursed the priest, God, and most of all himself.

“Where is it, where is it.” Nicolas was thumbing through a bible, his eyes frantically scanning the pages. He ran his finger up and down the old parchment, feather-light against its yellowed surface. He treated it with the same reverence that Aziraphale treated his books, though he held the bible gingerly as if it was like to explode. Crowley pushed the thought of Aziraphale away, shoving it down with the firm reminder that he needed to focus. 

The priest made an exclamation, and Crowley started up. Nicolas raised his wooden cross. “In the name of our lord Jesus Christ, the Church Triumphant, and the Archangel Michael I charge you, demon, to leave this place.” He thumped the bible shut, dropping it on the altar. He recited the prayer again, almost shouting, his cross an inch from Crowley’s face.

Crowley was tempted to pluck the cross right from his hand and snap it to bits, but he resisted the urge, instead allowing himself the satisfaction of smirking as nothing happened. “Why Michael?” he mused. “Michael’s an arse. There isn’t any of this higgly-piggly when she’s smiting.” He cocked his head at the priest, whose eyes were bugging out his head. “Though I suppose to you lot , all angels are the same when you get down to it. Eternal beings of “light” and “love”...and war. They’re called the heavenly host for a reason.”

Nicolas swallowed. Now his fear was tinged with annoyance, and something else. Doubt? 

The more Crowley thought about Michael, the more something dark brewed inside of him. She’d tried to kill Aziraphale. Sure, she didn’t know it was him. Thought her friends Above were dealing with that. But still. “Michael’s a real piece of self righteous holier-than-thou shite.” It felt good to spit that out, with all the venom he could muster.

The priest covered his ears. “You mustn't say such things!” he gasped. His breathing picked up and he scurried back to the altar, pulling out a scroll. This time the words he rattled off were latin. Another prayer to Michael, Archangel and Saint. 

Crowley had never bothered to learn latin. It was a language of the Lord, and bollocks to that. Besides, if he ever needed a translation he could ask Aziraphale. But this particular prayer was familiar. It wasn’t the first time a human attempted to exorcise him. 

Rolling his eyes behind his glasses, Crowley let himself drop to the floor like a ragdoll, convulsing for good measure before lying still. 

“I- I did it!” The priest let out an unpriestly whoop. He stepped into the pentagram, bending over Crowley. With a foot, he made as though to prod him.

In an instant Crowley jumped up and pressed against the far side of the pentagram. “Watch where you put thossse bootsss,” he hissed. “I won’t be discorporated, not by a daft idiot like you.”

Nicolas blinked. “Sorry.” He retreated, stumbling on his robe as he backed from the pentagram.

Crowley glared at the water stains. Now he couldn’t even pace the cramped confines of the pentagram. Pathetic. 

“Demon?” The priest’s voice was small, tremulous. “Do you know what I did wrong? The- the exorcism- I did everything right; I trapped you, I recited the prayers. It should’ve worked.” He hunched his shoulders, staring at the floor.

Crowley laughed, a harsh sound. “Don’t they teach exorcisms at priest school or something? You tell me.”

“I don’t-”

“Maybe, you’re not as clever as you think you are.” Crowley edged along the pentagram as close to Nicolas as he dared, another laugh bubbling in his throat. “And just so you know your pentagram is crooked; that symbol ought to go here.” He pointed from the symbols to Nicolas’s nose. “Is that acne? You’re quite the ugly bugger, aren’t you.” Crowley bared his teeth, howling with mocking laughter. 

Nicolas’s lip trembled. He blinked rapidly.

Crowley wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling as he slid to the floor. Sitting still was difficult and uncomfortable at the least, but Nicolas wasn’t an opponent worthy of Crowley’s full force. He simply didn’t feel like standing anymore. The priest had tricked him, though now that he had Crowley where he wanted him and the “exorcism” hadn’t worked, he didn’t know what to do. Bored, Crowley watched Nicolas pull in shallow breaths, struggling to take a deep one.

The priest shut his eyes, his face smoothing clear. Then he buried his head in his bible and bawled. “It was supposed to work,” he sobbed. “I was going to prove myself-- they’d be so impressed they’d give me a better parish, a bigger one. I’d finally leave this place. Did you know it rains here, constantly?” His eyes widened, and he shivered. “I think the damp has seeped into my bones.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Crowley scowled at him. “You think killing me will get you accolades or something?”

“No!” Nicolas looked horrified. “I wouldn’t kill someone! Not even a demon, I-” He hesitated, sniffled again. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for this. Priesthood. But it’s what I’ve always wanted, I don’t know what else I’d do with my life. Grow plants? Sell shoes?” Shuddering, he buried his head in the bible again.

Crowley groaned. “I should’ve just let the world end,” he muttered. “Oye! You, human. I’m a demon, not a therapist.”

Nicolas wiped his nose on his sleeve, staring ruefully at the tear stains on the bible. “Guess I’ll have to pay for that.” He tilted his head at Crowley, furrowing his brows. “Is crying on a bible a form of blasphemy?”

“How the hell should I know. You’re the priest.”

“Aren’t you a professional blasphemer or something?”

“Aren’t you a professional wanker?”

Nicolas frowned. “You could stand to be a little nicer. You are trapped, after all.”

“Demons aren’t nice. Nice is a-” Crowley cut himself off. He grinned. “Right, and how long do you think you can hold me? Eventually you’ll make a mistake. Something will happen. A slip. A falter. And then…” His grin widened as he bared his fangs.

Nicolas flinched. His fear sharpened, then faded away. He sat down next to the holy water, sighing. “You’re not all that terrifying where you are now. Sorry.” He hugged his knees.

Crowley could guess his short life story. Not many friends, bullied at school. Threw himself into seminary and managed to convince himself that he didn’t get along with his peers because he was too busy studying. He completed all that hard work only to be dumped here, a nowhere town with zero prospects. He must be bitter. Angry. Certainly lonely. Crowley had been certain that tempting him would be easy, but now he was fighting back his own anger. Not terrifying? He was original sin itself! He’d set the beginning of the end in motion! And then helped stop it, but that's besides the point. Crowley glowered at the floor.

“This might sound strange,” the priest said. “But I think that, in a way, I understand you.”

“You? Understand me?” Crowley snorted. “Doubtful.”

His eyes were wide and sincere. “I think I do. I don’t have anyone to look after me, and you don’t have anyone to look after you. We’re both alone.”  
The smirk slipped from Crowley’s face. Aziraphale must be wondering where he was by now; maybe he thought Crowley had stood him up, it wouldn’t be the first time. Cold claws seized his heart and squeezed it.

“You’re wrong, actually. I’m not alone.” He said the words stiffly.

Nicolas blinked. “You mean- you have friends? But you’re a-”

“Yeah, I know,” Crowley snapped. “Funny that. It took us a long time to get used to each other...we were very different, still are in a way. It’s not always easy, or simple. Having a...friend.” Not easy, but Crowley wouldn’t take away one second of the last six thousand years worth of arguments, dinners, conversations. They were the slender threads that wove their way through his and Aziraphale’s lives. Binding them together, for better or worse.

Aziraphale. His face softened as he shaped the name. 

Nicolas stared at him, slack jawed. The expression vanished from Crowley’s face in an instant, replaced with a scowl.

“What’re you looking at?”

“Nothing!” Nicolas closed his mouth. “I didn’t realize how humanlike demons could be.”

Crowley stilled. “What did you ssssay?” He ripped off his sunglasses, pacing as close to the edge of the pentagram as the holy water allowed. His sulfur eyes beat down on the priest, channeling his rage.

Nicolas squeaked and covered his face with his hands.

The church door burst off its hinges. Aziraphale followed behind it, wringing his hands. “Oh dear, I didn’t mean to hit it quite that hard. So sorry for the damage, I’ll pay for everything.” He let out a breath as he looked up. “There you are. I was worried sick about you!”

Crowley waved his fingers. “Hiya angel. Everything’s fine, nothing to see here. Got it all under control.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale scoffed. “Jolly good. Two shakes of a lamb’s tale and you’ll be out then?”

“I’m not some damsel in distress, that’s your job!”

“Oh, my job? I’m not the one practically standing in holy water. You let the human trick you?”

Crowley hopped from foot to foot, shuffling to the other side of the pentagram. “Might I remind you what happened last time you were in a church?"

“Don’t you even start!” Aziraphale scolded, stomping closer.

The priest’s eyes darted between them as they argued. “Um-- I…” The two beings ignored him. He coughed. “Excuse me!”

Crowley glared, and Aziraphale turned back to Nicolas.

“So sorry dear boy. If I may ask, would you be so kind as to deactivate this pentagram? I’m here to collect my friend and then we’ll be off.”

Nicolas reached for the pentagram, then stopped. 

Aziraphale sighed. “We have to go home. Crowley simply cannot stay with you forever.”

“But why not?” Nicolas stamped his foot like a child. “I don’t have anyone else to talk to!”

“I’m not some kind of pet,” Crowley spat. Scales crept across his face.

Azraphale caught his eye, shaking his head. 

Crowley growled low in his throat, but willed the scales away.

“Nicolas-- that’s your name, right?” Aziraphale clasped his hands together. “There are plenty of humans on these islands. Have you tried talking with them? Outside of being their priest?”

Nicolas frowned. “No,” he said. “I thought fraternizing was against the church manifesto?”

Aziraphale smiled ruefully. “Fraternizing isn’t always a bad thing. After all you never know when it could lead to something unexpected. And wonderful.” He glanced at Crowley, who smirked.

“Perhaps you could go to the local pub, talk with the locals. Have a pint or two.”

“I--” Nicolas blinked. “I never thought of that.” He wiped away a section of the pentagram and grabbed his coat, heading out the doorway. At the exit he paused, looking back. “Sorry about this.” He gave a small smile. “I hope someday I find a friend like yours. Thank you.”

“Right then.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the holy water disappeared. 

Crowley blew out a breath. “Finally.” He replaced his glasses, striding from the pentagram. “Angel, how the hell did you find me? I didn’t tell you where I was going- I didn’t tell you I was going.”

Aziraphale’s face reddened. “Um. Well. I-- I may have planted a device of sorts on you. Just as a precaution.”

“You did what?” Crowley pushed past him out of the church, wincing as his feet burned. Outside he whirled on Aziraphale. “You did what?!”

The angel worried his bowtie, glancing at the floor. “Just as a precaution, in case something went wrong. After Armageddon I couldn’t-- I just.” His voice sank to a whisper. “I didn’t want to lose you, like you lost me.”

Crowley flinched. “We almost died-- both of us, for good-- and you’re worried something will happen to me?” He barked a laugh, shaking his head.

Aziraphale frowned. “If I knew you were just going to laugh at me--”

“Angel.” Crowley took off his glasses, moving close enough to grip Aziraphale’s shoulders. “I promise, nothing like that will happen again. To either of us.”

Aziraphale slumped forward “But how do you know?”

“We’re on our own side, right,” Crowley murmured. “The divine plan, the ineffable plan, whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore.” He shifted, gathering Aziraphale closer. “It’ll be alright.”

The angel rested his head against Crowley’s, gripping Crowley's jacket.

After a minute he pulled away. “I must say my dear, I’m feeling quite peckish.”

“Ngk.”

“Shall we…?”

“Yeah.” Crowley grinned. “Where to?”

“Well, there’s this lovely little restaurant in Soho. It just opened! They have a tapas bar.”

“A tapas bar?”

They walked down the hill.

“Oh, don’t say it like that! Tapas are good.”

“Tiny little things, aren’t they? Hardly seems satisfying.” Crowley snapped his fingers. The island disappeared, replaced by London. Crowley opened the Bentley’s door for Aziraphale.

“Pish posh.” The angel settled into his seat. “Your palette is precisely as refined as a toddlers. Tapas are scrumptious.”

Grunting, Crowley slid into the driver’s seat. “Whatever you say, angel.” He gripped the wheel, wrestling the car onto the road. It skidded and nearly flattened an old lady.

“Watch the road!” Aziraphale yelped.

Crowley rolled his eyes with a grin.

Two beings: an angel who wasn’t quite an angel anymore, and a demon who wasn’t exactly a demon, argued off into the sunset.


End file.
